absolutely no one was expecting this of me (my hinting at coming back to dawnfair happening perhaps every two years, and my incessant blowing up our chat about it since i decided to sit down & do so? literally what are you referring to, there are no receipts you could present to me to back up your case, i simply Do Not See It) but here i am in the big 2026 making amends. absolutely no more prefacing is needed other than a long sigh of "ah shit, here we go again...."
“...Is all love as bleak and disorienting as the stage, with its most recent performance, would have you believe? Didon ends with a despondent heroine throwing herself into the flames at the departure of her lover, thus ending her life to escape her sorrow and a loveless marriage arrangement looming in near-distance. This author would have to believe that libretto author Marmontel, on account of his being a man, had no realization of the apt relevance of his characters upon authorship, but not all who put pen to paper are so blind.
This author has to weigh the credibility of such storytelling. With the end of this social season in sight, many uncoupled young ladies are certainly feeling the pull of despair, among them the Lady Clara Vidaud, who’s family is returning to their motherland at last. With no engagement for either her, or her American friend, has their time in London Society offered what surely their mama’s had hoped? There is very little time left, indeed, which begs the eternal question: can hastened plans make for satisfied endings? Or was Dido, in her hysterics, wise after all?”
— Lady Whistledown, dated May 1816.
The hallway was dim, unlit beyond what spilled from the open doorway that led to the room where the lion’s share of the Bridgerton family currently sat, a cacophony of amusement and delight in the deepest stretches of the night — a proposal! And the admission not needing to be wheedled out of Anthony like all manner of his private affairs were usually extracted, but rather said proudly and spontaneously, with a(n unnerving, if you were to ask Benedict) smile tugging at the edges of his face that reminded every Bridgerton of a time long since forgotten, hours when the Viscount of the family had been the eldest of them all, rather than the oldest sibling, and half of them were too young to know how to cherish that — Colin was bathed in half light, the taut edges of his excitement illuminated at all odd angles as the deep timbre of Eloise’s voice reached him: her figure blocking some small part of his joy.
From the room they were just outside of, Hyacinth was arguing with Greg, half-petulance that she was aware of Anthony’s regard for Miss Olive, she simply didn’t say anything because she respected them both, not because she was too busy to notice due to her facilitating and keeping track of the “superior romance between Benedict and La— ow!”
Benedict had thrown a rather forceful pillow.
It hadn’t been in defense of Gregory, who claimed he was the lock & key of all knowledge in the Miss Olive & Anthony chronicles (life & times), all due to his many a midnight conversation with Anthony in the Viscount study (“Because you’re still afraid of a bit of rain.” “Am not!” “Not sleeping through storms is decisive proof it!”), but he took the assist as divine law, lording it over his sister, who was still glaring at the ungrateful visage of Benedict, who was doing his best to dodge the rather knowing eye of Francesca.
Simon was stifling his laughter under the intent gaze of his wife, who had been relying on his stilled composure to keep their daughter, Caroline, from rousing from her slumber, but when he shot her a helpless glance, that of a phantom arm gesturing to the boundless hilarity surrounding them, Daphne couldn’t help but laugh good naturedly alongside him, watching with adoring eyes when Simon soothed the baby in his arms, briefly but gently perturbed by all of the racketous joy. (Any child with Bridgerton blood, after all, would be tolerant of chaos such as this, even if only a babe.)
All of this movement, erupting barely 20 minutes post Anthony, Violet, and Benedict’s return from the opera, allotted Eloise the semblance of privacy she was deploying now, as she stopped Colin, who was still beaming, on his way to retrieve something from his chambers.
Levity was slowly falling from his face like errant stars, constellations of confusion taking their place. Strongminded, Eloise certainly was, but bargaining was something generally judged to be beneath her, and the desperation that briefly cut across her speech was something with which Colin was unfamiliar. Perplexing, but by virtue of Eloise being his younger sister, Colin was better versed in skewing it to the side and landing on its cousin: frustrating.
Would he never see the end of his siblings and their insensible feuds?
“El, I’ve noticed that your friendship with Penelope has turned colder these past months since your return from Scotland, but my regard for her should remain unchanged, I think. It’s a shame you should no longer seek her confidence, I’m sure she’d have some witicism to share on this development.”
(As though ending in humor might save him now, or at least earn him something lighter than the heavy cast that Eloise was sporting, now.)
(And it worked, perhaps, because the sharpened points of her speech from earlier eroded to awkward reaching, now, as Eloise shifted from foot to foot.)
“It is not some… childish quarrel I’m asking you to sustain. Just don’t tell her,” then, more forcefully, “Not yet.” And Colin blinked at her urgency. For two long months he had been caught between Eloise, Penelope, and the Great Divide Of Which They Did Not Speak, and still he was no closer to understanding what caused it, thereafter sustained it, or what it all meant. Having sat next to both women in drawing rooms of vastly different taste, he had seen both of them furiously writing letters, only to be picked apart and discarded, a hurried nevermind as they failed to put their meaning onto page, like they’d intended to, with the wish that Colin would deliver it to the other party. Having entertained both of them with promenades and the occasional barb in the ballroom, he had stumbled upon (more times than he cared to count, “bumbling” really was a fair and accurate descriptor for his social graces, on occasion) their iced over regard.
For both Penelope and Eloise, vehemence in opinion was to be expected (though Penelope was always reticent to say it, shy and unassuming, which made her depth of belief all the more delightful), but to be so grave was unlike them. Unsettling. It spoke doubt into his heart that perhaps there was something he was missing — after all, it wouldn’t be the first time his boldness eclipsed his perceptiveness and he walked into something headlong.
Eloise sighed, impatient. “If it’s such a shame that I no longer speak with Penelope, then allow me this chance. I’m not asking you to avoid speaking with her entirely; I am rather glad of your closeness, in all honesty” — to which Colin raised a brow — “but that of all things you share with her, let this be none of them. There should be restraint at least somewhere inside of you.”
Colin allowed that final comment to go unremarked upon, though if it was because he had no basis to argue otherwise, he did not express, simply scoffing: “Honestly, El, you make it sound as though it’s all some grand secret and Penelope, of all people, would be the person to gossip about it and announce their engagement to all the ton.”
Eloise blinked at him in that particular way that only family can, and shaking her head, turned on her heel, back to the overfull room. “It does astonish me how you know absolutely nothing”
“Wait — I never said I wouldn’t do it; don’t tell mother!”
“…Pen, You know I am quite clever and not one for baseless accusations and I don’t know how to say this without sounding cruel I have felt your distance from me as of late and cannot help but wonder surmise that my suspicions are true and you are hiding something from me. I’m quite certain I know what it is and I’m not mad and I want to know why you have not shared it with me. Am I not an open-minded person? You know I have nothing but admiration and respect for women who make their own way in the world. Why didn’t you tell me you were have been Whistledown this entire time? I do not make it a habit to keep things from you, so why have you gone to such lengths to stay hidden?”
— Draft of an unfinished letter from Miss Eloise Bridgerton to Miss Penelope Featherington, dated December 1815.
“…I’ve noticed your distance as of late, El, and I am conscious that I have responsibility as much as you to nurture our friendship, but I am at a loss as to where we have stumbled. You have been the truest friend I have had my whole existence, and to have you avoid me now — cut our conversations short, have other siblings entertain me when I come to call on your company, to turn the other way when you see me in ballrooms — hurts. I have never kept secrets from you, before, so why do you treat me so? If there is something you wish to know, or something that you are not saying, tell me. But please, just say something.”
— Draft of an unfinished letter from Miss Penelope Featherington to Miss Eloise Bridgerton, dated February 1816.
“It is betrayal, Penelope. To humiliate me as I went searching for the author! To write the things you did of my family! Colin was beside himself when he came back from his travelling and Whistledown mocked him so. To say nothing of how you did your valiant best to ruin Lady Clara! Benedict had to leave! You know nothing of how it wounded us! If Whistledown was benign at the beginning, it hurts us, now, how can you be blind to seeing it? And I no longer care of your reasons for not telling me or your reasons for betraying my family and writing ill of your own. The Whistledown I admired is gone, and so too is the Penelope.”
— Draft of an unfinished letter from Miss Eloise Bridgerton to Miss Penelope Featherington, dated & burned in the fireplace March 1816.
“...I always wanted to share Whistledown with you, Eloise, but you have everything! You always have! There is no comparing our families, our status, or our luck because in every dimension you always win. To have one thing that you did not — to have a single measure with which I could approximate what I have always imagined it is to be a Bridgerton — I did not want you to take that from me or worse, elevate its glory and yet again prove my efforts mediocre by comparison…”
— Draft of an unfinished letter from Miss Penelope Featherington to Miss Eloise Bridgerton, dated & torn to pieces April 1816.
“I know you’re Whistledown, Pen. I’m not sure I can forgive you.”
— A letter from Miss Eloise Bridgerton to Miss Penelope Featherington, dated May 1816, delivered by cloak-and-dagger post amidst our next section.
Penelope Featherington was going to kill the eldest Bridgerton.
Yes, this wasn’t exactly a new sentiment for the girl - after all, she’d been friends with Eloise for years; plotting the murder of one Anthony Bridgerton was a bi-weekly occurrence during the social season - but this very moment was, perhaps, the second time in the whole of her life when Penelope was inspired kill the eldest Bridgerton of her own wicked volition.
(The first time had been years ago, when Anthony had been talking to Colin and had said — in jest, not realizing she was there behind him, in his own drawing room, as she was on most Tuesday afternoons, delighting in the company of friends — that a debutante dressed in yellow was perhaps more unattractive to men than a lady all in black. A lady in mourning cried a lot, he joked, with that wit of his that would always bite him ever-harshly, but at the very least she was not jaundiced throughout.)
(He realized his mistake by the look that had crossed Colin's face, and though he was a stumbling, awkward apologetic before he even turned to look at her, Penelope had already planned his demise four times over, and Eloise was prepared to lop his head off right there and parade it through the streets — a death like that of Pentheus from the Bacchae (not that Penelope's mother should ever know that she’d, in fact, read such a play).)
Yes, Penelope Featherington would go to Bridgerton house, knock on the door politely, as any lady ought, and then tear Anthony Bridgerton's head right from its body.
How dare he propose to Miss Olive is such a manner?
The fact of his intentions managing to evade her sharp eyes throughout the entirety of the social season, seemingly not showing any interest in the American beyond the polite interactions he’d shown her for years on end already proved to be a headache of considerable proportions (nevermind the tugging logic at the backmost corridors of Penelope’s mind telling her that had she not solely interacted with Anthony when propriety demanded it — and therefore only at brief intervals during times when she was more like to be distracted by two other notable Bridgertons, rather than the Viscount Apparent, himself — she would be rather less in the throes of such a predicament; banish the thought! That Anthony Bridgerton should take precedence in her musings when his austere and reproachable figure would always be bookended by the much preferred company, antics, and occasional heartache of Eloise and Colin was a laughable remark. Do not make her laugh. It was vexing enough to have such contrast exist, do not demand of her the labour of having to think upon it)! But to then slight Penelope further by proposing in the seats of the opera (a most loathed place to ever find one Anthony Bridgerton, to begin with) during intermission, where she (and the rest of the ton, sparing the eldest few nobles who would always be disinclined to use their opera glasses when there was no apparent falling action on stage, by the bye) was not!
Could he not have taken his confession of love (of which no one was certain ever truly did happen, as the pair seemed intent upon flouting the reputation of any gossip — established, would-be, or otherwise) to the hallway outside of the refreshments room, where all manner of gossip usually took place? Or could he have waited perhaps five minutes longer so that she, and the rest of the early-to-seat patrons, could have returned in time to hear the utterance of a single word that she was certain preceded the Very Unexpected Response to an even more Unforeseen Proposal??
Was he somehow unaware that just three seasons prior, one Lord Barnell had proposed in a similar fashion: at intermission of an opera, and thus there was an unspoken code of conduct with which to observe? (Though Lord Barnell’s choice was far more thematically appropriate, with its romantic and hopeful ending; why was it so vexingly like Anthony Bridgerton to choose a tragédie lyrique: that of Didon, that should end, not so fortuitously, at the heartbroken scene of a heroine throwing herself onto a funeral pyre. Was there something that the over-abundance of mama’s in the Vidaud-Akana-Bridgerton alliance should be watchful of, in the months to come? Was there a reason for the juxtaposition of the macabre? Why would Miss Olive, as seemingly fair minded as any other woman of the ton, allow such a reconciliation to happen at such a bleak scene? Did she lack taste in the absolute? Any other woman would have been appalled at such a lack of consideration!) There were simply traditions one was expected to follow! How very dare Anthony Bridgerton disregard them entirely, and then seek to further flout her person by jeopardizing her entire career as Whistledown: having a semi-private proposal at a very public event!
It made Penelope — er, Whistledown — look the fool: not knowing the proposal happened (to think she hadn’t even had the suspicion that evening!) and having nothing to say when Hyacinth Bridgerton whispered the news of the unforeseen engagement into Penelope’s ear on the streetcorner, as they waited for their copy of the infamous gossip rag.
Hyacinth was certain that Whistledown would have some intimate knowledge of the profession of love that no doubt preceded the quiet coupling of a heretofore unmentioned pair. Penelope pursed her lips together to deafen the screaming that berated her skull and just smiled, wide-eyed, as Hyacinth swore Penelope into secrecy — something about the family not wanting to spread the rumor before they saw Miss Olive later that day and could confirm it with certainty (because Anthony Bridgerton would be one to lie about such things… naturally).
If Hyacinth Bridgerton was incapable of keeping their engagement a secret from an acquaintance she’d barely spoken to all social season, just imagine what Daphne Basset might divulge over tea!, or what Colin might let slip at the gentleman’s clubs this evening!, certainly Violet would boast with the mamas, Benedict inform the art scene, and Gregory spread the knowledge to all other lesser creatures, animals and fauna alike, until all of England was teeming with the news and Whistledown with none of the authority on the subject!
She was earning good money with Whistledown! She was just starting to feel, in her position as gossip monger and most-esteemed columnist, powerful and inviolable, above reproach and almighty! She simply could not afford Whistledown appearing obsolete!
And thus, Anthony Bridgerton needed to die.
Preferably before he created any more wedding plans that she could not, omniscient, foresee. Before, even, his small army of a family could spread this news like wildfire and set the ton ablaze. Perhaps she could quickly pen a last-minute, very unexpected and double priced evening printing…
Never had she hated a brick wall of a man more.
And she was in love with Colin Bridgerton.
But, just as she was starting to wrap her brain around the knowledge of a Bridgerton-Akana proposal and what that might spell for her clandestine occupation, Hyacinth Bridgerton slipped something else into her consciousness and hand.
“Oh, and Eloise asked me to give this to you. If you want to write her back discretely you can leave it with me and I’ll deliver it free. I’m in the business of surreptitious correspondence delivery, vetted and approved! Your note will be safe with me.”
In the business of what…? Penelope could not decide which was worse: that she had underestimated H Bridgerton’s abilities for cloak-and-dagger activities, or any knowledge of such persons with the surname Bridgerton still surprised her, after all these years. Perhaps Hyacinth would be a reliable accomplice, in a few years time. After all, if she managed to recover Whistledown’s reputation after this engagement broke out, nothing could stop her, then.
But, then again, a note from Eloise…
Penelope was not fond of the way the prospect of opening the paper made her throat close, her eyes threaten to water, and her mind freeze. Eloise… her friend (for she never would cease to be), but a fixture impossibly distant all season, and, these past two months, always held at a room’s distance, her words at many-arms-length, all the while with a look in her eyes that she had some knowledge she was not sharing, some wound she could not heal… Penelope had her suspicions, but none of the certainty or bravery to face it.
Now, it seemed, she would not be given a choice. How very like Eloise.
And so, almost disregarding the sheet of Whistledown that was just arriving to her open hand, she’d broken the seal.
One aspect of A’s character that consistently and constantly got cut along the ever-sharp (and ever-admirable) edge of his jaw (or perhaps flattened under the impressiveness of his stature — a very intimidating height), was that he was a romantic.
Perhaps it was because so few men were capable of looking him in the eye that they missed the gentility in their downturned, tender glory. Perhaps it was because he was so oft inclined to crack his knuckles and all manner of fingerbones to the metric line of a poem, rather than utter anything half-appreciative, non-commital, or otherwise in its praise, that they underestimated his appreciation for its artistry. Perchance it was his play-acted severity, which blessedly offered him reprieve from social obligations more often than not, and some peace and quiet in the endless pomp and circumstance & myriad chaotic turbulence of the ton (which often attempted to rival that of the constant movement of the familial lives A had somehow been deceived into cherishing; truly, was there no rest for a man who felt so much older than his years?). Maybe it was because the first and most notable thing A. Akana made known about himself was that he was a fighter, and at all times 0.2 milliseconds away from making anyone who would wager him acquainted with his fists, but it seemed that no one in the whole of London seemed to ever notice his inclination to the romantic.
And sometimes, it seemed, that extended to even his elder sister.
“As I have made abundantly plain.”
Miss Olive Akana sat in the gardens of Vidaud house, disregarding the parasol the servants had offered her in favor of sitting full in the so-occasional sun of an English afternoon. A Akana looked at her with the stare he only gave to family — reserve bleeding into aghast animation, amazed disconcertion pulling his mouth ajar and hanging it there, every so often made all the more comical by the battering of his eyelashes and the slight convulsing of his head. Miss Olive stared, in a wild ploy of indifference, at the steady work of her needled embroidery.
“In lieu of a crowd of admirers, Anthony Bridgerton opted for emptied seats of an opera?”
“What makes you so certain it was Anthony Bridgerton who breached the subject, kaikunāne? Have I ever once made it appear as though I, of all your siblings, would let someone else decide the scene of my engagement?”
“And your expert eye discerned the tragedy Didon as the optimal tablaeu for your crime?”
“I still cannot comprehend all of London’s dissatisfaction with such a play. If it is so objectionable, whyever allow it to be performed in the first place?”
And A laughed aloud, a near choking thing, because it was just like his sister to willfully ignore the (very fair) critique in favor of obfuscating the bashful, giddy feelings creeping into the coloring of her nose and cheeks.
An air of smugness blew through the air, ruffling the leaves that protected the ripeness of miniscule tomato plants. “At least there’s still the announcement. We’ll ignore your antiromantic, unsociable inclinations, there.”
Miss Olive’s needle froze, and A saw no need to smother his smirk, feeling very much pleased that he won.
“There’s no need to announce the engagement. Gentleman who are… desperate to claw into relevance are the only people in need of that.”
“And couples who do their proposal in private.”
“An opera is a public event!”
“There was no one to witness. Private, indeed.”
“Whistledown will surely report of it!”
“And we’ll trust a gossip to represent the facts of it fair, of course, forgive me.”
She stabbed her needlework. “Kanapapiki ‘oe.”
“Hah! I know Latin well enough, now to know what that means.”
“And what is this, of Latin translations?” A turned, and walking down the path was Lady Clara Vidaud, some oversized tome in hand, the play act of studiousness, when it was clear by the light in her eyes that she had no real desire to read it, simply carried it along with her so that she would have the plausible deniability of a truer intention of teasing her too-long friend.
D was swiftly behind her, with seemingly more decided intent than his sister, and after thoroughly exhausting the topic of multilingual blasphemes, spirited A away to converse with Lord Vidaud (after all, with the waning of another social season — we are, after all, in the dying half of May, soon to be buffetted by the warmth of a burgeoning June — and the knowledge that, in no long repose, the elder Vidauds, heir in tow, were going to return to their homeland, but in their departure, leave a few pieces of them, still, there were arrangements to be made. All of which would make A’s eyes glaze over — never one for attention to detail — and would have to be better relayed to the rest of the party, later. But at the current place in the stream of time, Lord Vidaud is unaware of such matters, thus leaving the daughters to themselves.).
For a brief interlude, their conversation was only minor details on the wind, comfortability in the sureness of their connection that there was no need to get to pressing matters from the moment the canon presented itself, a warm and decided contentment that comes from knowing, and experience in cherishing, and understanding that fuses can have a long burning, and that excitement, in anticipation, is so much more reveled in when met at a very long last.
[and that is my tongue in cheek, metanarrative commentary on the FOUR (4) years separating these installments, asdfghjkl;, gotta love my dedication to suspense or something in that vein, idk.]
“So… you coaxed Anthony into a proposal at Didon of all entertainments”—(and will truly no one let such a fact sink into some far off, shallow grave and rot there?)—“and more pressingly, at a time and place you knew I would be not.”
“More accurately at a time and place where I knew no one would be present.”
“...And then proceeded to leave Anthony at the opera and return home with your brother, only to wait another two hours before very lamely saying, ‘don’t worry, Lord and Lady Vidaud, you do not have to write my family to apologize for any of my time spent here. I won’t be returning to New Haven. I am engaged.’”
And Miss Olive opened her mouth to retort — perhaps to made some remark about how Lady Clara was not, in all honesty, very good at mimicking accents and intones — then promptly decided otherwise and instead ran from her friend, who very quickly joined the chase: a flurry of skirts and laughter that echoed through a house so used to the opposite, in the months preceding. From some window above, Lady Vidaud smiled, some certainly rooting inside her that the choices her family made were the right ones, that the epilogue of the tome making up this period of their lives would be a gentle one, with pressed flowers between its pages and gilded filigree on its cover.
Miss Olive walked up the stairs of Bridgerton House, all at once dazed, aware of nothing beyond the green-painted door that loomed before her, all sound and manner of conversation lost to an anticipatory buzz from the moment their carriage left; and yet, contradictorily, acutely aware of the presence of Lady Clara behind her (massive tome still in hand; it was, after all, yet another day of Hyacinth’s lessons under the Vidaud’s tutelage — though who could say, truly, what subject they were on about, at this great length, and with the galeforce strength of Hyacinth’s whims) — Lady Clara, who would be seeing Benedict again, Lady Clara, who was not leaving for France as the rest of her family would be, Lady Clara, who she knew perhaps more deeply than her own self —
It was folly, perhaps, to become so preoccupied with others when she was walking up the stairs to a meeting so fateful it would mean assembling the rest of her life in its wake, but perhaps also, it was easier.
(“There’s no need for nervousness.”
(A, her most unexpected yet most reliable confidant throughout her entire life: here in England, or otherwise, had watched her trace the fingernails of her left hand with her thumb in a manner that only ever occupied her when she was intently and ever-spiralingly thinking, had fixed her with an odd play at reassurance — twisted with bafflement, like his older sister was a creature he would never quite fully understand, but leaning, at all odd angles, to get through the twisted vines of her composure to offer a balm to the worry eating within.
(“You’re going to sit in Lady Bridgerton’s sitting room like you do every week and embroider flowers or bees or something.”
(“I can embroider things beyond flowers and bees, you know.”
(“They like you already.”
(“Mai ho’o paʻakikī [don’t (pretend to) be arbitrary/hardened]; that’s my job.”
(And Olive had just stared at him, shoulders slowly relaxing, hand falling away from where it had sat on her knee, preoccupied. After gentle repose, she smiled. “A’ole paʻakikī au. He nahoa [I’m not stubborn. I’m bold/a good challenge].”
(“Nahoa [bold]? It’s pronounced: uahoa [hard-hearted].”
(And A laughed as Olive reached to flick him on the forehead, stopping only when Lord and Lady Vidaud came into the room, announcing they (along with D) would be following their carriage to Bridgerton House shortly, after finalizing some parts of their arrangement.)
And so here they stood, a knock away from the Bridgerton family (who, virtue of the movement of the sitting room curtains, were certainly aware of their presence, already) and everything that should come after. Oh, if one could only fathom the riches that Miss Olive would gladly pay, if she could be spared the embarrassment of breaching the subject, if she could cut out the part of her that would no doubt be made awkward upon being the center of all attention, being seen feeling giddy and strange—
But of course, Anthony would open the door.
And here was the gracelessness with which being the subject of attention and affection made her thoughts hide, and her throat ever-dry.
And more than a moment was spent there, in the overfull silence of the other’s eye.
Many someones were grumbling from within the hallway of Bridgerton House, all of them desperate to ferry their visitors in so that their teasing might commence, in the only hallowed space which the Viscount had begrudgingly allowed their taunts to be voiced, but only one was brave enough to push their way through, barring one.
But the pair’s joint interjection (surprised delight, from Miss Olive, restrained exasperation on part of Anthony) was smothered in the embrace of one Daphne Basset, who experty crushed her friend in an unexpectedly strong hug, and wheeled the girl into the hallway, her two companions shuffling in behind her, and Anthony bracing for impact as he shut the door, at long last.
“So my brothers were on your list, then.”
And Miss Olive, still reeling from the revelation that Daphne Basset was at Bridgerton House (and therefore her husband, and, likely, the entire Bridgerton family, extended or otherwise), unwittingly allowed a half-moments of confusion to give Daphne’s comment the groundwork it needed.
“List?” and there was Hyacinth, confused but still with perfect aim.
“Subsected.” said Simon and A in unison, and Miss Olive’s embarrassment began to burn at her face.
“Who else was on it?” Benedict was at Lady Clara’s side, grinning.
“If I recall there was a Lord Stanton.” and Daphne tapped her chin, as though she at all needed to pull from distant recollection. Everyone present would know she had the entire memory freshly tilled for this exact moment, loaded into a shotgun with which she could easily fire. And of course she would choose Lord Stanton to crucify, a friend of Colin’s who would no doubt be at the receiving end of the Viscount’s derision ever after, and only half deserving.
“I believe Daphne mentioned the fighting potential of Lord Cho?” the grin in Simon’s words was so thick one might have tasted it, and Miss Olive shot him a glare. Of all people to have joined in!
And then Colin appeared from a corner of the room like some phantom ghost. “Whatever about the Marquess of Montrand?”
“He quitted London to return to Scotland,” said Francesca. And, upon the interest of her brothers, who would always be suspicious when their most reticent sister knew something of a gentleman which they, themselves did not, she continued: “He’s a friend of Michaela—” and Benedict’s eyes gleamed “—Stirling. Michaela Stirling, cousin of John Stirling. We briefly met when I was there with Aunt Winnie.”
And perhaps there, he would find his peace.
Then, Francesca’s thoughts caught up to her. “How do you know of the Marquess?”
And the knowing half of the company stilled, because was there truly time enough in a singular afternoon to neatly, painlessly, and fairly summarize all of that?
But they were saved by Anthony’s grumbling, perhaps a trick the Lord Viscount had employed on a many numbered cross-examinations that frequently filled those very halls. “The better question is why we are talking about potential suitors of my wife when I am the one engaged to her.”
“Your wife, Anthony? Are you to tell me that you already performed wedding vows, as well?” and Violet materialized before the chaotic party, and the embarrassment that emanated from the engaged pair was enough to burn the entirety of the house in an instant.
The sitting room at Bridgerton House was almost-quiet at long last.
Anthony and Miss Olive less so told the family of their engagement and more so answered a series of rapid fire questions & bullying that left them stumbling into the truth in a manner quite like Miss Olive’s ability to dance when she first arrived in London, and flattened into humiliation quite like Anthony had been on the single occasion he had proposed that he get into the boxing ring alongside A — at least he could be glad of having another someone very capable of defending his family should the need for mele attacks arise (a reality quite stronger than that of other families; someone inform tell him of just how he managed to have the family with the utter least amount of normalcy and luck in the wide expanse of all the great and lesser cosmos combined).
When the subject of the greater Akana family was placed before them, Olive asked for ink and paper, and was blessedly able to ensconce off to a more private room to write a letter informing her mother and grandfather of her impending marriage, rather than sustain the turmoil that was the Bridgertons all exclaiming surprise that the Akana’s had not written sooner — last night or even that morning! With post taking as long as it did, having to venture across seas, it would be a veritable eon before the surprise reached them! Whyever delay?
Rather unfortunately, it was A who had to weather the attacks, though with fortitude, he held that he was on the side of his sister, as he ever would be, even if he thought her reasoning (“I want to be sure—” / “Of what?”) rather silly, indeed. It also then became his plight (truly a battlefield — one that made him yearn for the easier, simpler trenches of the war of 1812; someone please let him rest) to inform the Bridgerton family that with the length of time it would take to receive correspondence, then no doubt make arrangements to gather some things from their home island, then finally make their way to England by boat, the Bridgerton’s would not see the full of the Akana family for 3 months, leastwise, that being a very generously calculated minimum, and 5, at most. His mother was quick on her feet, that much was true, but voyages are what they must, especially when one was expected to ferry an entire family across. He then suggested, in a less commanding tone, that Miss Olive, truly, would be appreciative if her engagement were to be announced to greater society no sooner than the arrival of her family. The last thing she ever enjoyed courting was the gawking scrutiny and conversational obligations that came with the ton knowing of impending nuptials. Look what Whistledown wrote of the former Miss Cressida Cowper when she was announced to be engaged!
(No one cared to inform A Akana that there was a not-so-secret reason, that of her general comportment and lack of warmth, for Cressida to be at the receiving end of such gossip, because at just that moment, Miss Olive had returned with her completed letter, and everyone was certain that this kindness he asked of them was meant to be in confidence, with Miss Olive wholly unaware. Eloise, perhaps anxious to give herself space, as she was never quite at ease with secrets (or perhaps her restlessness lay in the anticipation of a conversation regarding something else, entirely), jumped at the opportunity to take the letter to be posted, and with her flurry of movement, the party began to break off.)
Eloise was to go on a walk with her ladies maid; Lady Clara, who was slow to rise from her place beside Benedict (who had been entertaining her with apt and whispered witticisms, among other sugar-coated delights) went to tutor Hyacinth with the second born Bridgerton still-trailing behind. Anthony was escorted to his own study by the firm hand of A and Simon, with D and Lord Vidaud (appearing onto the scene with the Lady Vidaud, as well, all but 10 minutes prior) following, already entertained by the prospect of what such a meeting had in store for the Viscount. Colin and Gregory were as quick to leave the scene as the rest of them (Greg had finally mastered the art of chess, and had been eagerly waiting the opportunity to use the strategies Miss Olive and Anthony had drilled into him to take Colin by surprise and wipe the perpetual grin from his carefree older brother’s face), and then, at long last, there was only the embroidery circle (more robust, now, with the inclusion of Daphe and Francesca) left, most of whom were ready for a bit of silent working, before the conversation — and thus ceaseless teasing — began again.
(Of course, all of this was to occur only after, in the wake of Anthony and Miss Olive groaning at the detailed list of expectations that would be required of their wedding, delivered at the hands of Daphne, a sound so forceful and due remarking on that Colin made the father fatal (and rather Colin-typical) error of saying with a wide grin, “I, for one, find it solves any problem or potential misgiving to simply elope.”
(Benedict blinked at him. The Lady Clara blinked at him. D blinked at him. A blinked at him. Anthony blinked at him with the authority only he could approximate. Hyacinth offered the most comical furrowing of a very pointedly knowing and disapproving brow. Lady Vidaud, who was half frozen in a memory of just surviving the very humorless implications of what Colin had unwittingly conveyed, also silently blinked. A beat passed between them all, with god having certainly abandoned the proverbial confessional, and in the minds of everyone possible of knowing, was the distant thought of, as gentleman are purported to say, ‘right in front of my salad?’ Simon had been the one to, after a long and uncomfortable moment, clear his throat and offer his praise for a long (and half secret!) engagement that certainly suited the pair. That, being, of course, the moment the party dissipated with the hardhanded speed with which it had.)
Oh, the never-stagnant energy that haunted this party, already, and none to say of how it would propagate upon the rival of another small-militia of a family: the Akanas!
Miss Olive was preemptively exhausted already, and she had four months to wait.
“I do have a request of you, Lady Bridgerton, of which my family would be most indebted to.” At long last, it was Lady Vidaud who broke the stillness, and the manner of her tone immediately called for rapt attention. A request? Sharp eyes all flicked from their embroidery to the Marchioness in the drawing room. “As you might have heard from a certain gossip columnist, my husband, son, and I are to return to our home in France at the end of June.”
Violet Bridgerton, who was so used to doing mental counts of children far more complex than this, was quick on the uptake. “And what of Lady Clara? Whistledown— er, the papers — made it seem as though the whole of your family would be quitting.”
Yes,” and the Marchioness smiled, a half warmed, half distant thing that tugged at something Lady Bridgerton had been so lucky as to never have needed to name, this deep into the years of her age. “With the marriage of Miss Olive and the Viscount still in the wings, it was my husband and I’s thinking that Dawnfair would be opened during the off season for the Akanas and my daughter. She has such an attachment to this place, and with her so settled, we were unwilling to disrupt it prematurely. They will have servants to wait on them, and they have proven themselves to be capable…”
“And most responsible and right-minded as well, if I may be free with my praise.”
A look passed between Lady Vidaud and Miss Olive, then, that the others, barring Francesca, weren’t quick enough to notice. She had no basis for the glance, and therefore no need to press it beyond indexing it for perhaps later purposes that would be more apparent to scheming siblings who knew how to price her knowledge properly. Either that, or it meant nothing, entirely.
“Resourceful, yes…” and there was the briefest spasm of Violet’s brow, “I was hoping that, perhaps, it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition if they were to visit your family at Aubrey Hall for some small part of the off season. Four or five months is such a long time to be left without a parental hand, and perhaps Miss Olive might gain some knowledge there, and my Clara might be of some help to your Hyacinth for a few weeks.”
And Lady Bridgerton laughed. “We would be delighted to have them stay, yes! It would be no debt at all, we are to be like family, soon, after all!”
“That is overkind, Violet. And do not hesitate to see them out whenever you have want of it — Dawnfair will be opened and ready for them at any moment.”
“And” — cut in Daphne, as the women were beaming at each other — “if it is not too much of a presumption on my part, Lady Vidaud, Simon and I would love the company of your family at Clyvedon after they’ve quitted Aubrey Hall.”
“That is so very kind, Your Grace.”
Daphne began laughing, “Oh, it is no kindness.”
At the dawning confusion on Lady Vidaud’s face, Francesca took it upon herself to elucidate her sister’s meaning. “His Grace has taken to A like that of an elder brother, and as they both share an interest in boxing, Daphne is sure A will tire of him the very same day he welcomes the Duke’s hospitality.”
Out in the fleeting warmth of a growing afternoon, Eloise walked down the street with Penelope in tow, both of their lady’s maids trailing behind. They, at least, were having a good time: what with Eloise and Penelope having been rather fond of walking and gossipping the many long years they’d known each other, these two maids were well acquainted with each other and very partial to sharing cross-house news and gossip — and with Miss Eloise having gone to Scotland for nearly all the year, returning only two months sooner, there were many stories to tell (such as Eloise’s newfound hobby for interviewing the common man at their leisure, and therefore all the provincial locations they had visited together, in hopes of a story, and the ways in which Eloise struggled to acclimate)! And with Miss Penelope becoming ever more secretive, the theories they had left un-updated regarding her potential novel! — there was joy in this promenade, even if it was not with the Bridgerton and Featherington that had called from it, but there was reconciliation in this walk that had been long overdue and now prolonged with uncharacteristic shuffles, rather than the two women’s usual hurried speed.
As had been their way, both women were quick with their words when they first met face to face, hot tears pricking their eyes, hands shaking with violent shame. Blame and accusations, then disbelief at the others claims. Hurt and offense, then deflection and justified pain. They had walked around the park twice, choosing less traveled down paths so that they could raise their voices to a place of being heard, then whisper to a place of being felt, all the while knowing that their lady’s maids walked behind, always at a far distance less than satisfactory to any mama, had she known.
“I can never understand you, Penelope. Even as you are always asking for it.”
“I can never forgive you, Eloise. Even as you give me impossibly more to hold.”
Tension sat thick between the two friends, now, as their walk was closing to and end, and their acidity was cooling, no longer spitting bile. Their heads ached with the tenderness of quick released pressure, the emptiness after a torrent of tears, and the dull weight of everything that had been revealed, unleashed, and held.
In front of Bridgerton house, the Akana’s and Vidaud’s were piling into their carriages and Benedict & Clara were saying very, very long goodbyes.
Hands were held at angles that suggested they had been holding the others and were tentative to move away from such a position, lest the spell be broke. Their mouths were moving gently, in a slow conspiratorial that no one could have heard them - not these women strides and paces away, and not D, a mere heartbeat. Galaxies and infinities were swirling within their forms, some part the distance that had been so long keeping them, but mostly the whirlpools and eddies of their true devotion and love.
Colin muttered something to Anthony, before him, the elder half leaned into the window of a carriage and unhearing of C’s barbs, but Hyacinth jutted her skinny elbow into his gut, and Eloise and Penelope both breathed a laugh despite the buzzing in their skull.
Well, it must be time to get back.
Eloise turned to the woman beside her, and Penelope found the courage to half turn, then breathe and continue the full way.
“I’m not sure yet, if I can forgive you.” And if felt like a sentencing, so Penelope nodded her head. “But—” Eloise stopped and swallowed something, three parts pride, two parts despair. “But I’m starting to understand, Pen.
“It seems as though these past few seasons I have learned rather much of the… privileges I have, though I’m not sure why they were so invisible to me, when they were so obviously apparent to everyone else…”
“Oh, El.” Penelope sniffed, half moving her hand to bridge the gap between them, but pausing halfway. “I miss you. More than anything. More than you know. I want to fix us, and I’ll start with… with telling him.” And the name passed between them unsaid. “He’s owed that much, I’ll grant you, and maybe I ought to make amends with Lady Clara, as well. She was mentioned in today’s sheet, after all.”
Penelope winced in her admittance of it, and therefore missed Eloise’s uncharacteristic calm.
“Lady Clara already knows.”
And at the end of all things, was Penelope truly surprised? You see, a secret never stayed just a secret, in the hands of Eloise Bridgerton.
Another great flaw, it would seem.
Another thing that between them, they would have to redeem.
Across the street and down the path, the final Vidaud carriage pulled away from Bridgerton House. Gregory, who was already inside, called to Hyacinth to indulge in some game. Anthony was arm in arm with his mother, already three topics into the future, speaking of Aubrey Hall. Francecsa pulled Colin inside, following Daphne and Simon, advising him that he shouldn’t go over and meet Eloise and Penelope at their walk, certainly they’d want their peace and that’s why they were so long away. Benedict lingered, watching the carriages disappear around a bend and holding all his hope, there. It had been too long since this ritual, once the routine of his life, had been performed and so much had changed him since then.
He was not the same Benedict Bridgerton now, as he had been all that time ago, but some things burned ever-brighter, if unchanged.
So deep in thought was he, that Benedict did not notice Eloise’s approach until she was beside him, and with a push of her shoulder, asked what he was thinking of.
“That I have conviction I didn’t before.”
[WE HAVE MADE IT TO THE COUNTRYSIDE, TIME TO PARTYYYYYYYYYYY. In the next installment I make we'll be speed running this — forgive me Clara, my love, my light — but romance is the least of the things i write well, but we will be focusing on a few key moments like a supercut worthy of a Lorde song. Feel free to poke at me and ask for anything specific that you want ~detailed~ accounting of, but what I will offer is just what I think is fun and silly to focus on. Lord and Lady Vidaud are the real MVPS because tell me why they are allowing Clara & her gaggle of Americans to chill at their country home WITHOUT PARENTAL SUPERVISION???? Like yeah, the rest of the Akanas are gonna show up in October, and they are going to be at Aubrey Hall for July and August and at Clyvedon for half of September, but but there’s Time (approx. 3 weeks) When They Are Fatherless And Motherless, this is craaaaaaazy. My secondary apologies for severing you from your brother, but my thought process here was that of recruitment officers sending you off to bootcamp so that when he returns (hint, hint) he will be infinitely more (if such a thing is possible) distinguished & cultured with 18 new topics to bother Prince Friedrich about (because in my head their besties & if Friedrich isn’t coming to us, D is taking the party to him), and stories with which to further woo Miss Wavenport (I could never forget about my plot points and my made up nobility). Also, do not take this lost opportunity at returning to France as The Only Time Clara Could Possibly Return Before Remaining In England Forever, because it is my firm belief that Benedict would love to move to France with you at the drop of a hat. Get him away from his family (joking), please.]
@musicallisto
there will be one more (1) final part (a CRIME, I KNOW, I SAID I WAS DOING THE FINAL ONE THIS TIME, feel free to stone me in the square on whatever day is most convenient for you). i have simply been sitting on this first half of the final part for like 3 weeks now, finding a satisfying way to keep the momentum, add silly dilly dallying moments, and get everything i want for the finale. i figured i have tortured you for OH SO LONG that i ought to split it in two. the good news is i do have plans, i do know how i will finish this. i simply need to do the damn thing.
